


Lover's Eyes Pt 2

by kam



Series: Lover's Eyes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kam/pseuds/kam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the part where everything goes to shit. But it's ok, because it gets put back together (mostly)!<br/>PS I am really bad at naming things! The name is a Mumford & Sons song that inspired the story - it really makes the most sense in this part, but I can't be bothered to think of names for the other parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FYI, there's some drunk!John dubcon in this one. Just go with it. He does.  
> Also, I may have just made that tag up.

Good, then. This was what one did, one fell in love, had sex, moved in (John insisted on maintaining his bedroom, though he slept there perhaps once a month,) fought, made up, had take-away, watched telly… One was happy. And they were, thank you. John was happy with Sherlock, in spite of everything. Yes, it still bothered him when Sherlock stowed a body part in the fridge, or when he woke John up at two in the morning with his violin. John wished he would eat more, keep a more normal schedule. But at the end of the day, he wouldn’t trade what he had for anything. And when he woke up, shaking and sweating, from another nightmare where Moriarty didn’t just walk away, Sherlock was there. Sherlock was soft and gentle, copying what he’d seen John do in similar situations, gathering John into his arms, kissing his brow, whispering soothing words. Whispering, “I’m here, John. I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

* * *

Occasionally, only very occasionally, the terror broke through. It broke through after _the woman_. The woman, who John, dear, simple, John, thought Sherlock _fancied_ , thought Sherlock was _flirting_ with. John, who had a carefully guarded jealous streak, worked the case, went along, until she was gone, and then, suddenly, so was John. Sherlock came home from Mycroft’s, wanting nothing more than a long, hot shower with his John, a shower that would rid him of the scent and the sight of _the woman_. But John was not there, and he did not respond to the first text Sherlock sent him, or the second, or the third. He did not answer the calls or any of the subsequent texts, either. Sherlock called Lestrade, who had not seen him. Nor had Molly Hooper. Mrs. Hudson had seen him go out, oh, a few hours ago, now. Mike Stamford responded to Sherlock’s text with a simple, “Please don’t.” Those two words, useless though they were, drew a long, relieved groan out of Sherlock. John was _safe_. He was out with a friend, they were likely drinking. That was fine, that was good, even, John enjoyed going out drinking with his friends. But why hadn’t he answered?

* * *

Stamford offered to walk him up the steps after John stumbled out of the cab, but John waved him off.

“I’ll be fine,”

he roared, smiling widely and lurching to the front door. He fitted his key into the lock after several tries, latching the door behind him and taking a moment to gather himself before he attempted the stairs.

“So many bloody stairs,”

he muttered under his breath as he began the climb.

“Who needs so bloody many stairs?”

As he ascended the final step, the door to the flat slammed open, and John was suddenly faced with 183 cm of consulting detective. _Angry_ consulting detective, if his face was any indication.

“Why,”

Sherlock ground out, his voice deeper than John had ever heard it.

“Why _what_ ,”

John stumbled past Sherlock into the flat, collapsing on the sofa and toeing his shoes off.

“Why was I out? Why did I have drinks with a friend? Why am I just home at,”

he checked his watch, but the numbers were a bit blurred.

“So late?”

Sherlock stood ramrod straight in the center of the room, glaring at John.

“Why didn’t you answer.”

John laughed.

“Missed your plaything, did you? Makes sense you’d be bored, after Mycroft took your new toy away.”

John twisted, looking sideways at Sherlock.

“Did you let her kiss you? I know she wanted to. Is that how you got the passcode? Lord knows I’d tell you anything after a good snog. I suppose I’m not quite as clever as she is, though. Maybe she held out for more.”

 

All the air in 221b seemed to have vanished. Sherlock tried several times to draw a breath, but it was no use. John thought he had… Preposterous. Not even worth… Don’t delete just yet. Restart. Possible courses of action: Wounded – how could he think such a thing? Doesn’t he trust me? Angry – how dare he? After everything, how dare he? Placating – what would I want with her when I have him? Surely he understands, it was just a case? Likely responses: Wounded – embarrassment, apology, contrition. Angry – anger. Placating – annoyance, eventual understanding, admittance of jealousy. Likely outcomes: Wounded – cuddling. Angry – fight, separate sleeping arrangements. Placating – sex.

 

“You are drunk.”

“A bloody brilliant deduction, that one.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Aren’t I always?”

John lurched to his feet, stumbling into the kitchen for a glass of water. Sherlock followed.

“You _see_ , John. You always _see_ , but you never _observe_!”

John slammed his glass down onto the worktop, spinning to face Sherlock.

“I don’t _observe_? I’ll tell you what I observed! I observed you paying enough attention to her naked form to know her measurements. I observed you letting her stay in our flat. I observed you two playing your little games with each other. Showing off for each other. _Flirting_ with each other.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but John ignored him.

“But no, you’re wrong, John. Of course, John is _always_ wrong. Lucky for John, Sherlock bloody Holmes is here to tell him just how wrong he is!”

 

Error in calculation: I lack the patience to be placating. New tactic required.

 

Within seconds of the words leaving John’s lips, Sherlock was across the room, pinning him to the fridge.

“I thought I had lost you tonight,”

he growled, tightening his grip on John’s wrists as he struggled.

“I came home and you were _gone_. I could neither find you nor reach you.”

John tried to shove Sherlock back, and ended up slammed harder against the fridge.

“You are drunk – I will forgive this glaring oversight. But even in your impaired state, this should not be above your ability: You. Are. _Mine_. That _woman_ was a case, nothing more. Tomorrow, she will have disappeared to God only knows where, Mycroft will see to that. _You_ , however, will be _here_ , where you _belong_ , with _me_.”

The fire had drained from John at Sherlock’s declaration of ownership, but he continued to struggle, mainly out of habit.

“Let me _go_ , you berk,”

he muttered. Sherlock did no such thing, instead leaning down and kissing John.

 

Sherlock did not ever expect to understand why John insisted on continuing to fight once he knew he’d lost. It was, in some situations, admittedly admirable. In truth, it was not his insistence on continuing to fight in general that bothered Sherlock. It was his insistence on continuing to fight _Sherlock_ that bothered him. In this instance, by all rights, John should be kissing back. John should be beginning to respond, perhaps pressing his hips forward or tilting his head, offering Sherlock access to his neck. But he _wasn’t_. He was grumbling and trying to turn away, trying to push Sherlock away. It was simply not on. With a long-suffering sigh, Sherlock knocked John’s legs out from under him, following him to the floor and straddling him, still pinning his wrists.

“Get. Off,”

John’s voice was tight, but Sherlock knew just as well as John that if John _really_ wanted to get away, drunk or not, he could overpower Sherlock. And so Sherlock did not get off. But he made quite sure that John did.

 

John woke up with a terrible hangover the next morning. Sherlock made sympathetic noises and brought him paracetamol and tea (a bit weak, but at least he was trying.) Sherlock helped him stumble to the toilet and followed him into the shower. When John felt a bit more human, he pulled Sherlock close and nuzzled into his neck. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John tightly, forgiving him just as silently as John had asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I think I'm WAY better at Sherlock's internal monologue than I am at deductions.  
> I could be wrong about that, though.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are separate sleeping arrangements in this one.

Dartmoor went… Poorly. For the second time in as many weeks, John stormed off and refused to answer Sherlock’s texts. Sherlock retreated to their room to pace and stew quietly. This was getting out of hand – had likely already gotten out of hand. Despite his best attempts, _he could not focus_. He could not concentrate on the case, could barely even enter his mind palace. Grudgingly, he let the case go for the moment, focusing on the matter at hand. Fact: John has gone. Deduction: John is angry. Further: I have made John angry (again.) Conclusion: ~~possible~~ poor behavior on my part. Next. Fact: John will come back, if not tonight then the next morning. Reasoning: John _always_ comes back. Further: I did not say anything worse than normal. Clarification: I did not _intend_ to say anything worse than normal. Examination: “I don’t have friends” – does John still consider himself to be my friend? Hypothesis: John was offended at the implication that he is not, in fact, my friend. Response: I must convince John that I, in a moment of pique, expressed myself poorly (shouldn’t be a hard sell, that.) Sherlock turned his mind to ways to right the situation, but at least 3% of his mind was stuck on the sheer amount of power John had amassed over him.

By the time John had cooled down, he had walked almost to Henry’s, so he decided to spend the night there, rather than risk Sherlock still being up when he got back to the inn. This was getting out of hand. As he curled up in Henry’s spare room, he missed Sherlock’s warmth next to him. It wasn’t _healthy_ for them to be so dependent on each other. Alright, fine, it was rather flattering that Sherlock _thought_ better with John around. And it was hardly surprising that John felt better with the man he loved near. This was beyond that, though. Sherlock seemed intent on following John _everywhere_ , and God help him if he didn’t love it. At first, it had been surprising when he turned over to find Sherlock had crept into bed next to him, or to find Sherlock climbing into the shower after him. It was sweet when Sherlock showed up at the surgery, or went with him to Tesco. Now, it was just a given. It felt strange now to sleep or shower alone, to eat lunch without Sherlock, to do a grocery by himself. John no longer simply _wanted_ to be with Sherlock, his obnoxious, ridiculous, mad, brilliant, beautiful man. John _needed_ to be with him. And that was dangerously close to not good territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, this one is really short! Don't worry, the next one is even shorter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The solar system is in this one.

Sherlock knew. He knew as he apologized to John, as John rolled his eyes and forgave him, as the warmth filled his chest. He knew as he solved the case, as he and John went back to London, as they fell asleep in their own bed together, at last. He knew when he woke up in the morning, when he went to the morgue, when he went to the surgery with John. He knew when he kissed John, held him close, had sex with him. He knew when Moriarty came to the flat, when he taunted Sherlock, when he finally left. He knew, and he cleared out a room in his mind palace (it had been months now, and he had not _once_ used his knowledge of the solar system) and began filling it with John. John in the morning, soft and warm and slow. John in the shower, golden skin and water droplets. John at work, his hands steady and sure. John running, his compact body a machine, covering the same ground as Sherlock despite his height disadvantage. John asleep, relaxed, searching unconsciously for Sherlock if he moved away. John during sex, his eyes closed or open and staring, dark blue refusing to look away. John’s hair, surprisingly soft, mostly dirty blonde but slowly turning a bit grey at the edges. John’s body, muscular, compact, perfect. John’s smile, the way the left side rose a tiny bit higher than the right when Sherlock said something particularly amusing. All of this was carefully filed away in Sherlock’s John H. Watson room. Because Sherlock knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you it'd be short! The next one is even better!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is blatant plagiary in this one.  
> (Sorry.)

“You... You told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human... Human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so there. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But, please, there's just one more thing – one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... Dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is legitimately just a quote from the show. Like, I did NO WORK for this chapter.
> 
> The next one is better, I promise.
> 
> Actually, it may not be, what with that quote having been written by a professional and the next chapter having been written by... Well, me. So.
> 
> WHATEVER, I ALREADY APOLOGIZED.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are other people in this one.

Harry packed John’s things for him and brought them to his new flat. She didn’t mention _him_ , didn’t say _his_ name, just helped her little brother unpack and left him. Harry understood. Clara wasn’t dead, of course, hadn’t been a fraud, hadn’t spent two years _lying_ to Harry. But it still hurt to hear her name, still hurt to think about her. So Harry knew. And Harry knew John. And John needed to be alone.

Ella, to her credit, never once told John he needed to move on. In fairness, John hadn’t told her that he was in love with Sherlock, that they were sleeping together. But Ella knew that they were close, knew that Sherlock was the most important person in John’s life. She knew that John had stopped dating. But she never said, “John, come on now, don’t you think it’s time? It’s been two years.” In fact, she never mentioned how much time had passed. She knew, in that way that some people seem to know, that for John, it had only just happened. She knew that no matter where John went, no matter what he did, he was always just coming from the street, just coming from Sherlock’s body on the ground, his blood, his wrist without a pulse. And after that first time, she never made him say it again.

Molly almost told John. That’s not quite right, because that makes it sound like it only happened once. The truth is, she had to change his name in her mobile to John Watson It’s For His Own Good, because at least once a week, she would scramble out of bed at some ridiculous hour and have her finger over the call button before she put the phone down. Even that didn’t work forever – by the end of the first year, she changed it again, this time to John Watson You Promised Sherlock!. On June 15th, 2013, Molly erased John’s number from her mobile. Because it was just too much to bear.

Sherlock shaved his head. Of everything, that hurt the most. The clothes he could handle. The living arrangements he could ignore. Mycroft he could… Ignore. But his hair, his hair that John loved… That was the hardest part. Due to the constant renewal of skin cells, by the end of the first month all the skin that had ever touched John was gone. So too was the hair that John had touched. As June turned into July, Sherlock grieved his loss.

John continued. The surgery took him on full-time, so he had something to do during the day. At night, he read the paper, or watched telly and pretended he didn’t hear Sherlock mocking the shows. Occasionally, he got a take away, but mostly he cooked at home. Well. He cooked at his flat. His flat was small and mostly grey and brown. It was very clean, and a bit empty, to be honest. It was, in fact, very much like John – simple, spare, understated. But it was not home, and likely never would be. Home was no longer an option for John. He had tried, once, a few months after. He’d stayed with Harry for a bit, and at Mrs. Hudson’s insistence, he’d tried to come back. He made it halfway up the stairs before the panic attack hit full force. He left without a word, and he did not go back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I wrote a real chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is spying in this one.
> 
> But it's not as exciting as it might sound.

Sherlock watched John, occasionally. Naturally, Mycroft had set up surveillance on John’s flat before he even moved in. On the nights when Sherlock couldn’t fall asleep (which was really almost every night,) he would turn his laptop on and pull up the feed from John’s room. The steady rhythm of John’s chest rising and falling helped. Sherlock still couldn’t sleep, but at least he could lie quietly.

* * *

John stopped writing his blog. Without Sherlock, he had nothing to write about. What was he to say?

“Woke up at half six this morning, again. Had tea and toast for breakfast, tried a new brand of jam. Remarkably similar to my normal brand. Treated fifteen separate cases of the flu today – get your flu shot. Came home, made a pasta, watched Goldeneye. It really is a silly premise, to be honest.”

His life wasn’t even interesting to him, why on earth would it be interesting to anyone else? Sherlock was what had made his life interesting enough for people to read about it, and now Sherlock was… Well. He still checked in on it occasionally, though. Now and again, someone would leave a comment – the nasty ones had tapered off within the first year, and now they were more often something to the effect of,

“I believe in Sherlock! Moriarty was real!”

John didn’t even realize he was trying to suppress a smile when he read them.

* * *

“We’re getting close.”

Sherlock _hated_ Mycroft’s newfound ability to walk into his living space whenever he pleased.

“Of course we are,”

he drawled, fingers itching for his violin. He knew that Mycroft had taken all of his possessions from the flat, but he flat out refused to give Sherlock any of his things back.

“Have you considered what you will do… After?”

Sherlock sneered.

“I see. I am aware of your reluctance to return, but…”

“Don’t. For God’s sake, Mycroft, _don’t_. Let me have _one_ part of my life that you don’t stick your ridiculous nose into.”

“He needs you.”

“He needs anything but.”

“Look at him, Sherlock.”

Of course, Mycroft would know.

“As you are fond of saying, you _see_ , but you do not _observe_.”

“Get. Out.”

Mycroft nodded and left with so much dignity and grace that Sherlock very nearly missed being sick.

* * *

John said it, since Ella apparently wasn’t going to.

“I’m not getting better.”

Her eyebrows rose in an expression of careful surprise.

“Getting better?”

“This,”

John gestured vaguely.

“It’s been almost three years. I’m not getting better.”

Ella didn’t answer, simply giving him her ‘go on’ look. John sighed.

“When… When I got shot, yeah? It _got better_. Not fast, ok, but the wound scabbed over, it healed. It still hurts sometimes, but not always, not anymore.”

“And this wound has not scabbed over?”

“It’s still as raw as it was three years ago. I’m not getting better.”

Ella wrote something down, then looked carefully at John.

“What exactly do you expect, when you say ‘get better’? What are you hoping for?”

“I… I just…”

John took a deep breath.

“I can’t stop thinking about him. I dream about him. Sometimes, it’s like he’s still here. And every day that I wake up and he’s not there, every time I wake up in my flat, alone, it’s like it’s happening all over again. I _miss_ him. I miss him like I’ve never missed anyone else before. I miss his voice, his deductions, the way he could look at someone and just _know_. I miss his bloody experiments, and finding body parts in the fridge. I miss him waking me up at 3 in the morning to go to a crime scene. I miss the way he looked at me, like I was… Like I was _special_. Because I’m not special, not without him. And I’m so alone now, just like I was before him. I don’t _want_ that. I don’t want to be alone anymore. And I know he wasn’t a fraud, I know him better than that, but _I don’t care_. I don’t care if he was a fraud, if everything he ever said to me was a lie. I just want him back.”

John was surprised to find tears on his cheeks, and he swiped them away angrily.

“So, no, I am not getting better. Because if I was getting better, I would not still feel this way. Moriarty said he would burn the heart out of Sherlock, but he didn’t. He burned the heart out of me.”

* * *

“I’m not going to read this!”

Sherlock threw the folder back at Mycroft, disgusted.

“I never managed to give John the privacy he wanted, I _still_ don’t, but this is a step too far.”

“Sherlock, I…”

“I would ask how you dare to bug his therapist’s office – his bloody _therapist_ , Mycroft – but I know you well enough to know exactly how you dare. Get out.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Mycroft drew a pair of reading glasses from his pocket. He placed them precisely on his nose, opened the folder, and began to read.

“’And every day that I wake up and he’s not there, every time I wake up in my flat, alone, it’s like it’s happening all over again. I _miss_ him. I miss him like I’ve never missed anyone else before.’ Shall I continue?”

“No,”

Sherlock spat, but he didn’t mean it.

“’I miss the way he looked at me, like I was… Like I was _special_. Because I’m not special, not without him. And I’m so alone now, just like I was before him. I don’t _want_ that. I don’t want to be alone anymore. And I know he wasn’t a fraud, I know him better than that, but _I don’t care_. I don’t care if he was a fraud, if everything he ever said to me was a lie. I just want him back.’”

“Get _out_.”

“If all goes as planned, it will all be over tomorrow. Mrs. Hudson will be safe, Lestrade will be safe, and John will be safe. It will no longer be necessary for you to remain here. I daresay you have already tired of my company. Go to him, Sherlock. He needs you. And you need him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, Mycroft, SHUT UP.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a reunion in this one (probably.)

John woke up at 3 and couldn’t get back to sleep. He tossed and turned for a good hour and a half, then padded into the kitchen to make himself tea. The tea helped, and he dozed back off in his chair. He very carefully didn’t look at the calendar – he didn’t need to. His body knew. He woke again, several hours later, to an insistent knock.

“Leave off, Harry,”

he called hoarsely, taking a sip of his cold tea to clear his throat.

“I’ll not have it today.”

The knocking stopped, but was soon replaced by a series of small clicks. A moment later, the door swung open, and John began to rise from his chair.

“Harry, I mean it, I’ll not…”

 

Sherlock stepped just far enough into the flat to close the door behind himself. John had frozen, halfway out of his chair, when he caught sight of him. After a few moments pause, he sunk back into the chair with a heavy sigh.

“This again,”

he muttered, scrubbing at his face.

“Perfect. Just what I need.”

Sherlock flinched as John administered a quite vicious pinch to his own arm.

“Damn it all.”

John sighed again, turning finally to face Sherlock.

“Right. Go on, then. Can’t wake up, so go on. I suppose it’s not surprising, today being what it is.”

“The anniversary of my ‘death’,”

Sherlock kept his voice quiet.

“Yes, yes, get on with it.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, taking a small step forward.

“I’m not quite sure what you want me to ‘get on’ with.”

“This, what you always do. ‘It was all a trick, John, I’m back now, I still love you, come back to Baker Street with me’. That lot.”

Sherlock frowned, as that _was_ , in fact, roughly what he had meant to say.

“I wasn’t going to come back.”

John raised an eyebrow – apparently this was not something his dream often told him.

“I… I rather don’t like to say it, but I _did_ mean to leave you. Forever, that is.”

John sighed, leaning back.

“But?”

Sherlock looked down, unable to meet that steady, blue gaze. John had _never_ , not once, given up on him. He had _always_ believed, and Sherlock had meant to leave him behind.

“I need you,”

he said, as quietly as he could without whispering.

 

While Sherlock was looking down, John pinched himself again, several times.

“Damn it all,”

he growled again, finally standing.

“That normally _works_!”

Sherlock looked up, training his silvery eyes on John.

“You will not be able to wake yourself.”

John whirled to face him, eyebrows drawn together in frustration.

“Oh, yes, because this isn’t really a dream, is it? You’re really back?”

He laughed derisively and went into the kitchen. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then followed him.

“John.”

John didn’t turn around – he was boiling water to make himself tea.

“John, stay here. I need to sit down and think. Don’t leave.”

John rolled his eyes, ignoring Sherlock and making his tea. He realized that he was making enough for two, and froze.

“I…”

He turned around – Sherlock was sitting at the tiny table John had pushed into a corner and never used, his eyes flitting back and forth, lips moving silently. After a few moments, he stopped.

“Oh!”

He grinned, standing up and shedding his jacket.

“What are you…”

He dropped his jacket on the chair and began to unbutton his shirt.

“You believe me to be a recreation from your subconscious – as such, I would look as you remember me to be. Never mind that my hair is slightly shorter, the subconscious is a tricky thing, memories are almost never exact. _But_. They are rarely quite so inaccurate that something like, say, a large scar would be added or removed.”

He shrugged his shirt off his shoulders, exposing the long scar running from just under his arm to his navel.

 

John’s knees gave out rather quickly after that. He sunk to the kitchen floor, eyes trained on the long line of red marring Sherlock’s perfectly white skin. After at least a full minute of John not moving, Sherlock shrugged his shirt back on and came over to him.

“John? Say something, please.”

“You,”

John began, and then stopped, looking up and studying Sherlock’s face. Several things were fighting for dominance in his head, and being rather loud about it. This wasn’t possible. Surely not. But Sherlock was right – when John dreamed him, he was always as he had been. He never had any new marks, not even where he… Well. And really, he’d gotten quite good at waking himself up, once he realized he was dreaming. Was he really..? Then Sherlock hadn’t died, he’d simply… Left? He’d left? Gone for three bloody years? Where? And why? Why hadn’t he taken John with him? He’d said he’d meant to leave forever, but here he was, kneeling on John’s lino.

“You,”

John began again, and Sherlock nodded, half-smiling.

“Yes, me. Me, John.”

 

As so often happened when he was around John, Sherlock had let his guard down, and so was completely unprepared when John launched himself at him, knocking him onto his back and punching him squarely in the nose.

“ _You bloody bastard_ ,”

John half-growled, half-shouted, punching Sherlock again.

“Three bloody years! Three _years_!”

Sherlock caught the next punch, grabbing John’s wrists and rolling them over. John used his new position to knee Sherlock in the crotch, wiggling out from under him and kicking him in the side for good measure.

“I saw you _die_! I saw you… Christ,”

John turned away, running a hand roughly through his hair.

“I grieved for you,”

he spun back around as Sherlock picked himself up, punching him in the solar plexus.

“Three years!”

He got one more punch in before Sherlock caught both his hands, gripping tightly.

“Three _years_ ,”

John’s voice broke, and the tears that had gathered on his lashes began to fall.

“Three years,”

he whispered, still struggling, still trying to hit Sherlock, even as the strength drained from his body.

“I saw you _die_ ,”

he murmured into Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock chanced letting go of his wrists to wrap his arms around John.

 

Unsurprisingly, John fell asleep quite soon after that. Once all the adrenaline had spent itself, he allowed himself to be held, then to be lifted, carried to his bed and covered. He curled into his pillow, and Sherlock couldn’t help but kiss his tear-stained cheeks. He knew better than to climb in next to John, but it was a near-miss. He’d known coming in that John wouldn’t forgive him right off the bat and take him straight to bed. Still. It had, in fact, been three years. Three years is a long time to go without touching the man you love. A very, very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tl;dr - http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/35848470628/30-day-otp-challenge-day-1-holding-hands-day
> 
> if only i could write as beautifully as she draws...


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a panic attack in this one.

The first thing John saw when he woke was Sherlock. He promptly fell out of bed and scrambled across the carpet until he felt the wall at his back.

“No,”

he shook his head, swallowing thickly.

“No. It was a dream. It was all a dream.”

Sherlock shook his head slowly.

“You’re dead.”

“Clearly not.”

“I saw you. I saw you die.”

“You saw…”

“You had no pulse!”

“There are…”

“Three years.”

“Bloody hell, are we going to start that again?”

“Get out.”

Sherlock paused, the beginnings of an explanation on his lips.

“What?”

“Get. Out. You have no call to be here.”

John couldn’t even relish the sight of Sherlock Holmes speechless. In all his planning, it had clearly never occurred to him that John might send him away. Well, that was too bloody bad. Sherlock still hadn’t moved, so John forced his legs to support his weight and climbed to his feet.

“Get out. Get out of my flat. Go.”

Slowly, Sherlock’s eyes followed John, and he began to shake his head, clearly confused.

“John, I…”

“Get out.”

“John…”

“Get out.”

“John…”

“GET OUT!”

Sherlock stood, but made no move to go. John could take no more, and crossed the room with measured steps, grabbing Sherlock’s arm and dragging him from the bedroom.

 

In his shock, Sherlock allowed himself to be pushed out to the sitting room, but there he dug his heels in.

“Stop this, John.”

He turned, putting his hands on John’s shoulders and stopping him. John glared up at him, jaw clenched tight.

“Get out of my flat.”

“I came back for you.”

“You left me!”

“I had to!”

“Right, of course you did. Just get out. I don’t want you here.”

“John…”

“Get out! Christ, why don’t you ever listen?! You don’t just get to… Come back! Not after that!”

“I understand that, John, but I don’t… I want to _fix_ this!”

“You bloody well can’t! You can’t just disappear for three years, let everyone think you’re dead, and then show up on my doorstep!”

“You said you wanted me back!”

“I… What?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes – now he was going to get blamed for Mycroft’s surveillance, too.

“John, did you honestly think that just because I was elsewhere, Mycroft would completely disappear from your life? Your safety had to be monitored.”

“You watched me!”

“Not all the time.”

 

Once again, Sherlock managed to find _exactly_ the wrong thing to say. Not, to be fair, that there was really a right thing to say in this situation. John felt that, all things considered, he had a right to ignore that, and he punched Sherlock again.

“You watched me! You saw what I… You saw me!”

“I didn’t read your file. Mycroft wanted me to, but I wouldn’t.”

“My _file_?”

“From your therapist. The transcripts.”

“The… From my…”

John blinked twice, slowly, and then he... Well, he sort of lost it. He tackled Sherlock, knocking him to the carpet and he sort of whited out for a few minutes. When he came back to, Sherlock had pinned him to the floor. Sherlock’s nose was bleeding, as were his lip and both eyebrows. They were both breathing heavily, and John felt the beginnings of a major crying jag rising in his chest.

“I hate you,”

he whispered, and Sherlock flinched. John shoved him over, rolling on top of him.

“I _hate_ you. You _left_ me. I _believed_ in you. I never stopped. Everyone said I was crazy, they said you were lying. But I _believed_ in you. Because I loved you, because I _knew_ you. And you _left_ me.”

“John,”

Sherlock’s voice was soft.

“John, I _had_ to. He… You would have been killed.”

“At least I would’ve been with you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing.

“I had to choose, John. I had to choose between leaving you for a finite period of time, or losing you forever. Which would you have chosen?”

 

Sherlock flinched when John slammed their lips together. He had, in all honesty, been expecting John to head-butt him. It took him a moment, but he began to kiss back, shaking John’s hands from his wrists to wrap his arms tight around John, pressing their bodies flush together.

“John,”

he groaned when John pulled back, leaning down to attack Sherlock’s exposed throat.

“God, _John_.”

“Sherlock,”

John growled against his skin. Sherlock shuddered with the realization that John hadn’t said his name yet. John nipped and sucked at Sherlock’s throat, leaving red marks that would surely turn into bruises. Sherlock panted – it had been so long since anyone had touched him. John ground their hips together, and Sherlock whined, which made John do it again.

“John,”

he gasped, fisting his hands in John’s shirt.

“John, I love you.”

 

Of course, John’s heart didn’t _actually_ stop. But it did a very convincing impression of it. John gasped for air and tore himself out of Sherlock’s grip, scrambling across the carpet on his backside for the second time that day. Sherlock lay on the floor for a few moments, trying to catch his breath, before sitting up. John pressed tight back against the wall, needing _something_ , something solid and real and unmoving. This, all of this… This wasn’t possible. People didn’t just come back from the dead. The man that you watched jump off a bloody building didn’t just show up at your door three years later. He _couldn’t_. This all was just… Just a very long and cruel dream. But… But. But John always _knew_ when it was a dream. Yes, he sometimes let it go on, stayed asleep, just to have him back for a little while longer. But he always _knew_. This was different. John did not _know_ this was a dream, it felt an awful lot like reality. And God help him, but if anyone _could_ come back from the dead, it was Sherlock bloody Holmes.

 

To be honest, this was something of a relief – Sherlock had not been at a total loss in more than three years. John was, apparently, gearing up for a panic attack, which did not seem like a normal reaction after a snog, particularly not a welcome-back-from-the-dead… Oh. Right. Well. Sherlock took a deep breath. Fact: Up until roughly four hours ago, John believed I was dead. Response: Disbelief, anger, physical violence, kissing(?), panic attack(?). Immaterial. Fact: John is on the verge of a panic attack. Possible courses of action: Ignore – give John space to work out his feelings without interference. Comfort (verbally) – attempt to ‘talk him down’. Comfort (physically) – attempt to give John a ‘safe space’ in which to work out his feelings. Likely responses: Ignore – further emotional outburst later, increased lack of trust, feeling of not being cared for. Comfort (verbally) – positive reaction to familiar voice, possible increased trust. Comfort (physically) – fight or flight response, feeling ‘smothered’, possible further physical attacks. Likely outcomes: Ignore – negative; further withdrawal. Comfort (verbally) – positive; increased trust. Comfort (physically) – negative; increased anger.

 

“John.”

That voice. That voice that had been in every one of John’s dreams for three years. That voice that John had heard, occasionally, making some snarky comment or another.

“John, it’s alright.”

He reached out, blindly, searching… Searching… A warm hand covered his, and he held on for dear life.

“I’m here, John. Really here. It’s alright.”

A second hand, now, gently cupping his face.

“I came back. I came back for you.”

“You,”

John’s voice felt strange in his throat, the words tasted foreign.

“You said…”

Warm fingers laced through his, locking them together.

“You said you wouldn’t leave.”

That voice, the voice John could never forget, didn’t want to, really.

“I know. I’m sorry, John.”

 

Sherlock was surprised when John, without opening his eyes, crawled into his lap. He sighed, wrapping his arms around him, the one man for whom he would come back from the dead. The one man for whom he would willingly repeat any number of things. The one man he loved.

“Don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you,”

John mumbled into Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock smiled and tightened his arms.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

John lifted his head a bit, pressing his face against Sherlock’s neck and taking deep breaths.

“Christ, it’s really you, isn’t it,”

he breathed.

“It’s really you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, though, he's really not getting off that easily.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is Sherlock-not-getting-it in this one.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

John rolled his eyes, setting a mug in front of Sherlock and sitting across from him.

“Did you not catch the bit about me not having forgiven you yet? And anyway, it’s the middle of the month, I have a lease.”

“I’ll buy it out.”

“No!”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“You are being unreasonable.”

“I’m being… _I’m_ being bloody unreasonable?!”

Sherlock nodded, taking a sip of his tea.

“I haven’t had a good cup of tea since I left.”

John rolled his eyes again.

“I’m not moving back to Baker Street.”

“You have yet to provide a good reason why not.”

“Well, lucky for me I don’t have to! Christ, Sherlock, you don’t get to just come back and pick up like you were never gone! Does… Does Mrs. Hudson even know?”

Sherlock nodded, setting his mug down.

“I contacted her and Lestrade upon my return. I saved you for last, so we would have more time.”

John ran a hand through his hair.

“Just us three, then?”

“Who else?”

John shook his head, at a loss.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I don’t know.”

“Donovan and Anderson would hardly be pleased with the news, though Lestrade may have told them already. Mycroft has been ‘keeping track’ of me since I… Left. Molly Hooper knew.”

“Pardon?”

 

“Come now, John, who do you think helped me?”

“ _Molly_?”

“Molly Hooper, yes.”

“So you trusted _her_ enough to tell her, but not me?”

“This was not solely an issue of trust, John.”

“Christ, you just know all the right things to say, don’t you?”

Sherlock frowned.

“Sarcasm.”

John threw his hands up and left the kitchen. Sherlock waited a moment, then followed him. He had gone to his bedroom and thrown himself across the bed, facedown.

“You’re a right prat, you know that? I didn’t say you could come in my room.”

“I do not wish to spend any more time away from you, John.”

“Too bloody bad. Should’ve thought of that before you died.”

“John. Please, tell me how I can fix this.”

“I don’t _know_ , Sherlock. I honestly don’t know if you can.”

Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed, very carefully not touching John.

“I need to try.”

 

Sherlock collected his jacket, slipping it on neatly.

“We can talk about it at the end of the month. Go home, Sherlock. You look exhausted.”

He seemed to hesitate, then turned back to face John.

“My social protocol has… Faltered. Would it be bad form to kiss you goodbye?”

John sighed heavily, shaking his head.

“It would, but go on.”

Sherlock nodded, leaning in and pressing a light kiss to John’s lips.

“I will come back.”

“Alright.”

“Goodbye for now, John.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, straightened his jacket, and left. John closed the door gently behind him, then sank down it. He rested his forehead on his knees, trying to hold the tears back, at least for a little while.

“Shower. That’s what I need. Good hot shower.”

He forced himself to his feet and into the bathroom, turning the water on hot. He climbed in, letting the water soak him, washing his hair and body, then bracing his hands against the wall and letting the water pour over him.

“Christ, can I do this again?”

 

Mrs. Hudson clucked at Sherlock when he came home.

“Didn’t take it well, did he, the poor thing.”

She dragged him into her flat to clean him up.

“Can’t say I blame him. If I was ten year younger, I might’ve chinned you myself.”

“Now, now, Mrs. Hudson, I’m sure you’d do an admirable job even now.”

“Cheeky,”

she grinned, patting his head and sending him upstairs.

“Someone stopped by with a lot of boxes while you were out, dear.”

Sherlock nodded and took the stairs two at a time. Indeed, there was a neat pile of boxes in the middle of the sitting room. Sherlock opened them all until he found his violin. Over the next three hours, Mrs. Hudson, bless her, didn’t complain _once_.

 

John woke up the next morning with the feeling of having forgotten something important. He stumbled out of bed and went to the toilet. As he washed his hands, he glanced at the mirror and noticed the little card. ‘John,’ it said, ‘Still not dead. I’ll be round the surgery for lunch. S.’ John dropped it and stumbled back against the door, took three deep breaths, and then snatched the card up out of the basin.

“Christ,”

he muttered.

“Bloody fucking Christ.”

 

Sherlock left a card on John’s mirror every day for the two next weeks. He met John at the surgery every day but the first Thursday, when Mrs. Hudson needed his help with some inane bit of home improvement or another – he could hardly say no. John didn’t let Sherlock kiss him again, and Sherlock didn’t ask. As the month drew to a close, Sherlock wondered if he should mention John moving in again, but decided against it. He didn’t want to be ‘pushy’. Never mind that he couldn’t sleep in his bed, not without John. Never mind that he ached to simply _touch_ , to run a hand through John’s hair, touch his cheek, his shoulder, hold his hand, _anything_. This must be done at John’s pace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, Sherlock is so _smooth_.
> 
> Also, that thing with the card is totally stolen from another fic I read in which Sherlock writes in Sharpie on John's hand, just so he knows.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is Mycroft in this one.

John did not move in at the end of the month. Sherlock didn’t mention it, which was a relief. He just wasn’t ready, not yet. He wanted to. He wanted to go back to Baker Street, back to Mrs. Hudson and the flat and _home_. He wanted to go back to Sherlock. But it couldn’t be that easy. He just needed time, time to really believe that Sherlock was back, was staying. Because he couldn’t go through it again, give up his life, let Sherlock take him over again, just to lose him. Sherlock was doing his best to be predictable with the notes, meeting John for lunch, texting him regularly, even asking John out to dinner. At first, long, awkward silences stretched out between what little they managed to say to each other. John would end up concentrating on his food, and Sherlock would concentrate on… Whatever it was that Sherlock concentrated on. But he kept coming. Not to John’s flat, except to slip in and leave the notes, which neither ever mentioned but John saved. He would show up in John’s office at work, or meet him at a restaurant or in the park. And eventually, the silences didn’t come as often, and when they did, they weren’t awkward. They were not the same comfortable silences they would lapse into before, each entwined in his own thoughts but still very much together. It was still too soon for that. But they were getting closer and closer.

* * *

“You realize, of course, that you must ‘come back’ eventually.”

Sherlock sneered, but Mycroft didn’t continue.

“Why should I?”

“You wish to continue living your life in the shadows?”

“It is… Safer.”

“Have you _any_ idea how difficult it is to keep your presence in the iconic flat a secret? If you wish to remain anonymous, take John to the countryside and live a quiet life.”

“…the countryside.”

Mycroft nodded.

“If it will keep you from making further ridiculous suggestions, I will agree to ‘return.’ But I need _time_.”

“Time for what, precisely? You had three years.”

For the first time in said three years, Sherlock picked up his violin and used it to drown out his brother.

* * *

“Bloody hell, are you serious?”

John shook his head and kept walking, studiously ignoring the black car following along beside him.

“I’m not,”

he called, without looking at it. They kept going for ten blocks before John rolled his eyes and climbed in, muttering curses. Mycroft received several of John’s favorite when he finally came into the room.

“So nice to see you again, John,”

he smiled.

“I assume you know why you are here?”

“You’re a bloody wanker!”

“That was not actually what I wished to discuss.”

“Leave off, Mycroft. The only good thing about the last three years was that I didn’t have to see you.”

“I need your help, John.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s for Sherlock.”

“I wouldn’t spy on him before, I won’t spy on him now.”

“That is not what I wish to request.”

John opened his mouth, then closed it and took a deep breath through his nose.

“Fine. Fine. I can’t leave til I hear you out. What.”

“Sherlock does not wish to make his return publicly known. He has agreed to ‘come back,’ as it were, but has requested an indefinite period of time beforehand. He is concerned about safety.”

Mycroft paused, and John found that ‘the look’ was apparently an inherited trait. He threw his hands up.

“Nope. Sorry. Don’t get it.”

Mycroft _did not_ roll his eyes, but it was clearly implied.

“He is concerned, John, because he has not yet been able to win you back. He does not wish to return publicly without you. And he is scared that, should his presence be known, more dangerous situations may arise. He is hesitant to put you in such situations, particularly when your current relationship is so… Tenuous.”

* * *

Sherlock found himself in the heretofore un-thought of  position of considering the easiest and least permanent way he could impede Mrs. Hudson to the point that she could no longer climb the stairs. She kept trying to _feed_ him, and she would come up in the evening and try to usher him into bed. She prattled on about ‘weight loss’ and ‘dark circles,’ telling him it was one thing when he had a case, but this was just orneriness. Sherlock very carefully did not tell her that he did, in fact, have a case, the single most important case of his lifetime. He did not have _time_ for such distractions as food or sleep. There was a knot before him, and he had to focus all his energy on untangling it, and quickly, too, because there was surely a deadline. The knot was what mattered, untangling it, solving the puzzle, cracking the case. Food and sleep could wait until he had John back.

* * *

By the end of the third month, John had heard from Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson about their concerns. He knew. He wasn’t blind, he could see it. And really, he _did_ mean to move back in, soon. He wasn’t going to drag this out unnecessarily. There was just… There was something missing, still, and he couldn’t say what it was, but he knew it was important. In the meantime, he supposed he ought to try to help, and so one day at lunch, he offered Sherlock a crisp. Sherlock was half-way through waving it away when he froze, glanced at John, and then nodded and held his hand out. John raised an eyebrow and, curious, offered him another. Sherlock accepted it as well, eating it just as mechanically as the first. John passed him the entire packet, one crisp at a time, and Sherlock ate them all. His face remained determinedly neutral as he ate, but John could see his discomfort in the line of his shoulders, the angle he sat at. He was eating, even though he didn’t want to. He was eating because John wanted him to. And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what sucks? Eating when you're not hungry.
> 
> PS almost done with this part!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is resolution in this one.

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up when John showed up at his door with an overnight bag. After several long seconds of silence, John grumbled,

“ _Move_ , you bloody wanker. The boxes will be here soon.”

“Boxes,”

Sherlock murmured, still staring at John. A moment later, his face lit up.

“You’re coming back!”

“I’ll try. I sublet my flat for the month. I can always go back.”

“You won’t.”

John rolled his eyes, going through to take his bag upstairs. Sherlock stood at the foot of the steps, watching John with a confused expression.

“You’re… Oh. Oh.”

He nodded and went back to the sitting room. Right. Fact: John is moving back in. Deduction: John has begun to forgive me. Further: John has begun to trust me again. Conclusion: Current course of action effective. However. Fact: John is moving back into his old bedroom. Deduction: John does not wish to sleep with me. Further: John is not yet ready to be intimate. Reasoning: John is still hesitant, still uncertain. Conclusion: Continued patience required.

* * *

At the end of their first week together, John told Sherlock that he didn’t have to be so well-behaved all the time.

“I lived with you before, you know. I got used to you throwing things and being up at all hours, playing your violin, leaving weird things in the fridge or the bath. I’m not going to storm out forever if you act like yourself.”

Sherlock nodded, slipping into consideration as John went back to his curry. Sherlock still wasn’t eating very often.

* * *

Three more months slid by. John began leaving his bedroom door open at night, as Sherlock had woken him up three separate times by trying to slip into his room to check on him. John didn’t mention the breech of privacy, simply left the door open and made sure he was wearing pants and a vest, if nothing else. In short order, those became Sherlock’s _least_ favorite articles of clothing, and he decided to make John give up every pair of them, once he had him back. He quickly amended that when he noticed one night that John had at some point acquired a particularly fetching pair of red pants – he would make John give up every pair _except_ that one. That seemed more than fair.

* * *

John spent December trying to decide what he should give Sherlock for Christmas. Clearly, his first choice would be himself, ribbon optional. The thought didn’t send him straight into a panic attack anymore, which was good progress. Didn’t mean he was ready for it, though. And, much as the baser part of him wanted Sherlock to suffer as John had suffered, to offer that and then take it away… That would be crueler than John considered himself capable of being. No, if this was to happen, it could not be until John was completely ready for it, until he was sure. There could be no halfway, no maybe on this. Sherlock deserved that much, the bloody prat.

* * *

It was really pure luck that Sherlock had decided to lie down when he did. He hoped that if he went loudly to his bed and then remained still, he could fool Mrs. Hudson into thinking he’d gone to sleep. So he was lying there, in the dark, on top of the covers, still turning the situation over and over in his mind, when his door eased open. He didn’t move as John crossed the room silently, climbed onto the bed, and drew the covers over himself. When a hand reached out across the space, Sherlock met it with his own, twining his fingers through John’s. They lay silently for long moments, before John spoke.

“I dreamed you were gone,”

his voice was quiet and shaky, and Sherlock ached for him.

“It’s stupid. I had to see. To be sure.”

“I’m here,”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand gently, stroking his wrist.

“I can’t possibly ask you to believe me, not after this, but _I’m not leaving_. I’m not leaving you again, John, never.”

“Good,”

John murmured, snuggling deeper into the covers. His breathing began to even out, and right before he slipped off, he tugged gently at Sherlock’s arm, pulling him closer.

* * *

John hated himself for being surprised to wake up in Sherlock’s arms. Rationally, he deserved his skepticism, his disbelief. But it disgusted him that he could believe that the man who loved him would leave him to wake alone after what he’d said. He calmed himself by breathing Sherlock’s scent and promising himself; one day, waking up in Sherlock’s arms would be as normal and commonplace as jam on toast.

* * *

Sherlock woke without realizing he’d fallen asleep. He felt well-rested and warm and surprisingly calm. It took him a moment to realize that this was, in large part, due to his arms being full of John Watson. John Watson, who had come to his room last night, scared to have lost him again. John Watson, who allowed Sherlock to touch him, soothe him. John Watson, who simply wanted to be near to him. John Watson, who wanted him to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's that, then, isn't it?  
> No, wait, it's not. There's an extra bit.  
> Which I'll be posting soon.  
> So.


End file.
